


Peel Away The Mess

by solversonlou



Category: Barry (TV 2018)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Assassins & Hitmen, Backstory, Barry is Legal When The Sex Happens, Blow Jobs, Broken Families, Cancer, Canon-Typical Violence, Childhood Trauma, Codependency, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dubious Consent, Grooming, Hand Jobs, M/M, Manipulation, Military, Older Man/Younger Man, Pre-Canon, Underage Drinking, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:28:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24744610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solversonlou/pseuds/solversonlou
Summary: Barry isn't much older than five when he first meets Fuches.Barry and Fuches's toxic, codependent relationship, documented over the years.
Relationships: Barry Berkman/Monroe Fuches
Comments: 3
Kudos: 31





	Peel Away The Mess

Barry isn't much older than five when he first meets Fuches.

His dad is flipping burgers on the grill in their backyard when he hollers for Barry to come over and Barry complies, almost tripping over his own feet as he bounds across the grass with all the energy that a kid his age would have.

"Barry, I want you to meet someone," his dad says, gesturing to the man stood next to him.

Barry squints up at him, the sun in his eyes, and he sees a man who looks a little older than his dad, his hair dark and slicked back, a beard on his face. Something about him looks strange in comparison to the other adults there. Maybe it's the fact he's wearing a dark blazer and slacks whilst everyone else is dressed in Summer clothes.

The man kneels before him, meeting his height, introducing himself, "Hey, buddy. I'm Fuches."

Barry recognizes the name. He's heard his dad mention him once or twice to his mostly uninterested mom. His mom isn't here now, though, so Barry looks up to his dad for approval.

Barry's dad gives him a reassuring nod and a smile, and Barry looks back at Fuches, bounces on the heels of his sneakers, a smile on his face, "Hi, Fuches."

\- - -

Fuches is nice.

He comes around a lot, hangs out with his dad mostly, but sometimes when Barry's dad is busy at work he'll pick him up from school and buy him McDonald's.

They sit in Fuches's car, watching the traffic pass on the highway, and Fuches points out the type of Jeeps his dad and him used to drive when they were in the army. 

Barry's dad doesn't talk about the army much, so Barry likes hearing about it, likes when Fuches talks about what a great guy his dad is, how he saved him. 

Fuches doesn't bring up Barry's mom. Barry likes that. Sometimes kids at school will bring her up, or a teacher will suggest he make something for her in class without knowing that she isn't around, and Barry will get upset.   
Sometimes Barry gets really upset, like he doesn't know what to do with all of the feelings inside him. Sometimes he gets into fights with kids at school.

He's just turned seven-years-old and Fuches is picking him up from school more often than his dad is. Fuches tells him his dad is just busy at work. Barry doesn't quite believe him.

They're playing Nintendo on the floor of Barry's living room when Fuches asks him about the bruise on his face. 

Barry goes quiet, avoids the question.

"Hey, come on, bud," Fuches gently nudges, pausing the game so Barry has to look at him. "It's okay. You can tell me."

"Don't tell my dad," Barry asks, looking up at Fuches, whose brows furrow at the request. "Please."

"Alright, kid," Fuches agrees, patting Barry on the shoulder. "I won't, I promise."

Sighing, Barry puts down his controller, crossing his legs on the rug. He pulls his knees up to his chest, props his chin up on his arms, "A kid made fun of me. He said I didn't have any friends."

Fuches tilts his head and Barry feels his heavy hand squeeze his shoulder, "Well, why would he say that?"

"Because I don't have friends," Barry says it so dryly that it's almost comical. Only, of course it isn't, because he's seven and he's clearly upset.

"Hey, now that's not true, is it?" Fuches says, shifting closer on the carpet. He has his arm fully around Barry now, swarming his small frame. "You've got me."

Barry blinks, scrubs at his bruised eye, "You're my dad's friend."

"Can't I be both your friends?" Fuches suggests. "I've got lots of friends. Me and your dad have the same friends."

Barry doesn't know if that's true. He barely sees his dad hang out with anyone that isn't Fuches. Not like when they lived in the old house, back when his mom was still around. All the neighbors knew them. They soon went away when they found out his mom was never coming back from that 'business trip' she took.

He wonders if maybe Barry and Fuches just have friends that they don't see a lot. After all, he'd been alive five years before he met Fuches. His dad hadn't seen him in years, and now here's here most of the time.

Barry's lips curl into a smile, his chin raising from his folded arms, "Okay. Yeah. We can be friends."

Fuches grins, squeezing his shoulder once again, "'attaboy."

\- - -

Cancer.

His dad who served in Vietnam has cancer.

It all makes sense as to why he could rarely pick Barry up from school anymore. He was always at the hospital, doing tests and getting treatment.

Barry cries for days. He gets the feeling again, like his body can't handle all of the sadness and rage that's bubbling inside of him. 

It winds up with him sitting in the principal's office with bloody knuckles and his dad's hoarse, chemo riddled voice yelling at him.

At home, Barry picks up a baseball bat and smashes up the Lego Millennium Falcon he'd gotten for his ninth birthday. After he's done obliterating it, he just stares at the pieces scattered on his bedroom floor, fists balled tight.

Fuches must hear the commotion from where he's making boxed mac and cheese in the kitchen, because suddenly he's at Barry's door, asking him if he's alright.

Barry turns to him, tears in his eyes, "I'm sorry."

"Hey, bud," Fuches says in that soft, comforting tone. The one Barry's heard before. He steps over a few pieces of Lego, makes his way to Barry, who sits down on his bed, sniffling. "It's okay."

"I can fix it," Barry says, trying so hard not to cry. He's so tired of crying. It's all he does lately. "I'm sorry, Fuches. I didn't mean to. It was your gift."

The mattress dips besides Barry as Fuches takes a seat next to him, placing a hand on his knee. He squeezes it gently, tone soft as he speaks, "It's alright. It's good to get your anger out sometimes. Shows you've got strength. You could do a lot with that sort of energy."

Barry's brow furrows as he looks up at Fuches, "Like what?"

"Oh, anything," Fuches says, patting Barry's leg. He pulls his hand away, gestures to the bat on the floor. "I mean, baseball for one. Do you play baseball?"

"Not really," Barry says, eyes drying a little, the rage inside him subsided. His fingers relax out of their fists. "I'm not good at sports."

"Hmm," Fuches ponders, eyes going a little distant as if he's recalling something. He considers whatever thought he's having for a moment, before turning his attention back to Barry. "There is something, but you're a little young for it."

"I'm not," Barry puffs his chest out, defiant. "What is it?"

"Well, my dad used to take me hunting," Fuches explains, eyes lighting up at the memory. It reminds Barry of when Fuches talks about his time in the army with his dad. "I was a few years older than you, though. Probably still a little too young. Not much older than twelve. We used to go up to a cabin in the mountains, Alaska somewhere. You got real big moose up there."

Barry wonders, for a moment, if his own dad will be around when he's twelve. If he'll be able to take him hunting like Fuches's dad took him.

His only exposure so far to hunting is watching Bambi when he was four-years-old. He remembers being terrified and crying his eyes out when Bambi's mom died. His own mother had just rolled her eyes and told him to stop being a baby.

Barry thinks that maybe he'd be able to handle it now. He's seen much worse since then. He's cleaned up the blood his dad had thrown up on the bathroom floor.

"It's scary at first. You gotta make sure you do it right, 'cause God knows, you don't want a thousand pound moose charging at you if you miss it," Fuches chuckles, a little darkly, maybe, especially in front of a kid. He catches himself when Barry just stares at him, clears his throat. "I mean, it's not that scary. Kid like you would do great, I think."

"I could do it now," Barry says, voice serious. In fact, his tone is so serious that it doesn't sound like it comes from him, and Fuches actually does a slight double take. 

Swallowing, Fuches's chuckles, "Hey, maybe we'll start you off on something a little less lethal, hey?"

Barry exhales, looking away from Fuches, towards the broken Lego on his floor.

Fuches reaches out, squeezes his knee again, "How about a dartboard? That's good target practice."

\- - -

Barry's dad is good at darts.

Even when he's weak from the chemo, barely able to stand, he still gets bullseye after bullseye.

Barry misses the board his first few tries, but it doesn't take long before he gets the hang of it.

Fuches isn't over much lately. He'd given Barry the dartboard a few days after their chat and hasn't been round since. It's been a couple of months. 

Barry's neighbor, an elderly woman with cataracts takes care of him when his dad is in the hospital, but it's mostly Barry taking care of her, making sure she doesn't burn her kitchen down.

Barry gets better at better at darts. He doesn't get into many fights at school anymore. He's got a couple of friends now, who come round and play with him. 

\- - -

Four months after Fuches was last around, Barry's dad collapses.

Barry is sat in the family room of a hospital, his elderly neighbor's wrinkled fingers dipping into a bag of chips next to him.

Fuches walks through the double doors, and Barry is immediately on his feet, running over to him, throwing his arms around him.

He's taken aback at first, unused to Barry showing him, or indeed anyone an inkling of affection. He hasn't even seen the kid hug his own dad.

Slowly, he puts his arms around Barry's shoulders, feels his small frame shake as he cries into his shirt, "Hey, it's okay, bud. I'm here."

\- - -

Fuches isn't very good at darts. He doesn't get a single bullseye.

Barry doesn't play much now. His dad's getting worse. Everyone seems surprised that his dad has even lasted this long.

Barry doesn't go to school much, either. Fuches tries to take him, but Barry ends up making himself throw up so he'll get sent home, so Fuches stops trying to force him to go in.

Instead, Fuches takes him on drives, anything to get him out of the house, where his dad is being looked after by a nurse that Fuches is paying for out of pocket.

Barry doesn't know what it is that Fuches does for work, but he mentions something about finance. Barry's dad is a contractor, so they don't have a whole bunch of money. Certainly no health insurance. Barry wonders if Fuches has been paying for everything, the treatment and the pills, even when he was gone for four months.

They're sat in Fuches's car, watching the cars go by on the overpass again. Barry is eating McDonald's, shoveling as much of it into his lanky body. He's shot up in the past year and a half. He's almost twelve.

"Can you take me hunting?" Barry asks, swallowing the last of his fries. He's still ravenous, despite the overhanging knowledge that his dad will probably die soon. He'd read that people usually lose their appetite when they're faced with the death of a loved one.   
Fuches's eyes bulge for a moment, caught off guard by the question. He lowers his milkshake from his mouth, places it on the dashboard, "Kid, I told you. You're too young for that."

Barry frowns, shifting in the passenger seat. He looks out the window, watches as a Jeep rolls by, face pressed to his hand.

"Anyway, your dad might take you," Fuches says, slapping a hand on Barry's knee. "When he's better."

Barry jerks his knee away, and when he turns to face Fuches, his face is twisted in anger, voice raised, "Stop lying! He isn't gonna get better!"

Fuches's lips part, taken aback by the sudden outburst. His eyes scan Barry's features, the way his nose scrunches up, the sheer guttural anger. It's animalistic, almost, beyond his years. He recognizes it from faces in his past, from faces he's in contact with in his line of work.

Barry pulls back, face pressed against his hand again, looking out the window.

Fuches doesn't say anything, just turns back to face the road. He exhales, puts the car into drive, speaks, "Don't tell your dad about this."

\- - -

It's not hunting.

It's a shooting range.

Fuches lies to the guy at the counter, tells him that Barry is thirteen.

Barry's ears ring, even with the protection, but he barely notices.

All he can focus on is the target and the way his mind clears of anything else.

Fuches's hand is heavy on his shoulders, adjusting them, but Barry guides his own way, feels the metal in his palm, weighty.

He's good. Really good.

Just like the darts, it takes him a few tries, but he hits the center after a while. 

Bullseye.

Fuches is ecstatic, whooping and cheering when Barry takes off his ear muffs, clapping him on the shoulder.

The adrenaline pumping through Barry's body, it's so much better than the rage, the fear. He laughs, he actually laughs for a first time in what feels like years.

He's almost twelve years old, he's just shot his first gun, and he's got a friend, a good friend, cheering him on. 

He doesn't even wonder what his dad would think, if he'd be upset. 

All he can think of is how good it had felt, how he's never felt so alive.

\- - -

Fuches takes him to the shooting range twice a week now.

It's calming, a chance to get away from the house.

They tell Barry's dad that they're going to play baseball in the park.

Barry knows he shouldn't lie, but Fuches seems to want to keep this a secret. 

"I'd love to tell him, bud," Fuches says, the two of them sat outside the range, sodas in hands. He waggles a finger in his ear, drums still ringing. "But after 'nam, your dad just wasn't the same. Poor guy would probably freak out if he saw you with a gun."

Barry still doesn't know much about his dad's time in the army. He knows tidbits from what Fuches had told him. That his dad was brave. That he'd saved Fuches's ass a few times. That Fuches had saved his. He knows they were stationed together. 

"It feels weird," Barry exhales, putting his soda down. He's already fired up enough from the shooting. He doesn't need sugar on top of that. "I don't wanna lie to him."

It's cliche, but Barry expects Fuches to turn to him and talk about how sometimes we lie to protect the ones we love. 

"You wanna keep doing it, though, right?" Fuches says instead, tone shifting, voice low. 

Barry blinks, turning to look at him, confused.

"It makes you feel good," Fuches continues, eyes flickering over Barry's face. He's twelve and a half. He's almost as tall as Fuches is now. Reaching out a hand, he places it on Barry's knee. "You don't want it to stop, right? You wanna get rid of all those bad feelings, make all that sadness go away?"

Barry barely blinks. There's something holding him there, twisting in his gut. It's not rage, or sadness, it isn't particularly negative. It's... uneasiness. The fact that all of this could go away. He doesn't want that. Nodding slowly, he chews the inside of his cheek, voice quiet, "No. Yeah, no. I mean, I wanna still come here."

Fuches's face changes so quickly that it barely registers, lips stretching into a grin. He pats Barry's knee, pulling away to grab his soda again, "Of course you do, buddy. Come on, I'll get us some food on the way home."

Barry nods. Fuches must be right. It's better if his dad doesn't know.

\- - -

Barry hears them one night, when he's putting out the garbage.

They're sat in the yard on lawn chairs, Barry's dad with a coat and blanket laid over him.

He can hear their voices, just barely over the crickets. It sounds like Fuches has been crying.

"I promise you, buddy," Fuches sniffles, clasping his father's hand as Barry watches from behind a tree. "I'll take care of Barry. I won't let anything happen to him."

Barry breathes out, fingers flexing against the bark. He feels a smile spread across his face, tears pricking his eyes. 

He's gotten used to the idea of his dad dying, but he'd been so scared of the thought of being alone. His dad had told him he'd probably have to go and live with his aunt in Wyoming, and Barry had gone straight to the shooting range, rage churning.

Now, he's relieved.

At least he has Fuches now.

\- - -

Nobody expects Barry's dad to go into remission.

He's thirteen years old, almost in middle school, and his dad has been battling this thing for years now.

He'd almost died. He should have died. But here he is.

He's missing half his liver and he's got a colostomy bag for the rest of his life, but he's alive.

It takes a while for Barry to get used to the idea of his dad actually sticking around.

He'd been ready for it, had accepted it a couple of years ago. He'd started planning things, like how he was going to ask Fuches to take him hunting for his fourteenth birthday. How they'd scatter his dad's ashes up in the mountain, give him a send off.

Barry had wondered if Fuches would officially adopt him. If he'd drive him to prom. If he'd be there for his graduation. If he'd be there on his wedding day. He'd even thought about naming one of his future kids after him. Middle name, of course. First name would be his dad's.

Now, though, none of that would happen.

He's not disappointed, of course. He's his dad. He loves his dad.

He'll have those times with the man he was supposed to have them with, the man who shares his blood and his surname.

\- - -

Barry is doing well. He has friends, a lot of friends.

They come over and play darts on the same board that Fuches had got him.

He gets a bit cocky, tells them that he's got a friend called Fuches who takes him to a shooting range.

They don't believe him. 

He doesn't care.

There's a girl at school. Her name's Tammy. 

Barry tells his dad about her, and his dad seems proud at first, but then he mentions that she's got blonde hair and green eyes, and his dad closes up.

It's only when he tells Fuches does he realize why his dad was so closed off.

"Your mom had blonde hair and blue eyes, bud," Fuches says, sucking air in through his teeth. "Don't worry about it, though. I'm sure it's nothing Freudian. Just try not to mention her in front of your dad."

Barry nods. Fuches pats his knee.

\- - -

"Can we talk, bud?" Fuches asks one day, standing at Barry's bedroom door. 

Barry turns to him, away from his algebra homework, sitting at his desk. He nods, gestures for Fuches to take a seat on his bed.

Fuches complies, making a soft 'oof' of a noise as his knees click and the mattress dips beneath him. He shifts, threads his fingers together, elbows on his knees, "Barry, I was thinking..."

"Dangerous," Barry says, raising his eyebrows.

Fuches chuckles, a little taken aback by the humorous tone. He supposes now that Barry has friends that he's gotten a sense of humour. 

Eyes shifting to the floor, then back up again, Fuches sighs, "I, uh. I gotta go away for a while, bud."

Barry's smile drops. His brows sink, his tone is flat when he speaks, "Why?"

Fuches pauses, mouth open as he considers his words. Barry looks like he did back in the car, before he'd taken him to the shooting range for the first time. Anger. Rage. He swallows, "I just. Well, your dad is better, and there's a job opportunity."

Barry's fingers curl into fists. His brow furrows deeper. He speaks, voice more of a quiet anger than the outburst he'd had when he was younger, "He might get sick again. You promised."

Fuches shakes his head, confused, laughs a little nervously, "Hey, I'll still be around, buddy. I'll come and visit."

Turning away, Barry stares at his desk, nails digging into the flesh of his palm. He speaks, jaw clenched, eyes pricking with tears. He won't cry. He hasn't done that in god knows how long. He holds back the tears, straightens his back, "Okay. I guess you're right. Dad'll take me to the range."

Fuches's hands squeeze. He tilts his head, voice low, "No. You can't tell him about that, Barry. I told you, he won't like it."

Barry inhales. He turns to Fuches, still visibly angry, "Why? You never told me why."

"He just wouldn't, buddy," Fuches sounds like he's pleading, almost. Like he's scared. He stands up, makes his way over to him, as if he's trying to de-escalate a situation. "Promise me, bud. You can't tell him."

Barry stares up at him. He can see that he's scared. Can see that this obviously means a lot to him. He doesn't know how to feel. He's still so angry, his gut twisting. He exhales, lowers his gaze, feels Fuches's hand on his shoulder, "Fine. I won't tell him."

Fuches sighs, relief flooding through him. He squeezes Barry's shoulder, taps the underside of his chin with the fingers on his other hand, "I'm gonna miss you, buddy."

Barry feels exhausted, "I'll miss you, too."

\- - -

"Barry, what the hell is this?" his dad asks, holding up a leaflet.

Barry's stomach drops, eyes widening when he realizes what it is. He panics.

He's fifteen. He hasn't gone to the range in over a year. Not since Fuches had taken him there just before Winter break, on a day where he was visiting from out of town.

"I went with Kyle," it's the first thing Barry can think of. It's plausible, he guesses. Kyle's family are from the deep south. They've got deer heads on the dining room walls. "His dad took us."

"Oh," Barry's dad says, looking down at the leaflet for the gun range in his hand. It'd been in Barry's desk drawer when he'd been looking for a pen. "I didn't think you'd be into that kind of thing."

Barry frowns. He isn't sure what his dad means by his tone, "What do you mean?"

"Well, just that if I'd known, I'd have taken you," Barry's dad says, so casually that it almost doesn't register at first.

Slowly, Barry blinks at his dad, realizing what he'd just said. A wave floods over him. He remembers, all the times Fuches had told him not to tell his dad about it. How he'd acted like his dad would be angry. How Barry had been convinced that his dad had some form of PTSD that stopped him from going near a gun.

"You alright, kiddo?" Barry's dad asks, breaking him out of his train of thought.

Barry swallows. He nods, "Yeah. I, uh... we could go, if you want to?"

Barry's dad smiles, "Yeah! That'd be great, Baz."

Barry smiles, but he feels sick.

\- - -

Barry starts going to the range with his dad.

His dad is even better than he is, hitting the targets each time with precision accuracy.

It reminds him of the dartboard, how good he'd been at it, even at his weakest.

Barry rips the dartboard off his wall. He smashes it to pieces.

He doesn't tell his dad about Fuches taking him to the range. He should, really. He knows now that his dad isn't fazed by guns, knows that it wouldn't trigger him into some rage or emotional breakdown. 

If anything, his dad will just be angry at Fuches for making him keep a secret. For being selfish. For making Barry think that he couldn't do these kinds of things with his father. That he needed an outside source for god know's what purpose.  
Barry doesn't know where Fuches is, but he has his number.

He phones him, yells into the receiver. 

Fuches tries to reason with him, but Barry just yells even louder. He tells him he was never his friend. That he was just some sad old man that never had kids of his own so he had to come in and pretend to be his dad.   
Barry tells him that he's happy now. He's got his dad. His real dad. That he's even promised to take him hunting.

\- - -

"You wanna come to the store, Baz?" Barry's dad is putting on his heavy coat. It's mid-Winter, and it hasn't started snowing yet. There's a bag of hunting rifles next to the front door of their house, packed and ready for the following day. "Just gotta get a few more things before the trip."

Barry looks up from his homework. He's cramming in the last of it before the trip so he doesn't have to rush it when they come back. He looks up at the clock on the living room wall. It's almost ten pm. They have to be up at five. He considers it for a moment, then shakes his head, "Nah, go ahead. I'll probably go to sleep soon."

"Good idea," his dad says, zipping up his coat. "Forgot how much sleep you teenagers need."

Barry shakes his head, his mop of hair falling in front of his eyes. He chuckles, "Alright, old man. Can't wait for you to sleep through your alarms tomorrow morning."

"Alright, kid," Barry's dad laughs, opening the door, the cold air rushing in. "Whatever you say."

Barry waves to his dad, who waves back, just before closing the door.

He looks up at the clock. He really should go to bed.

\- - -

The station is cold.

There's an officer talking to him, her voice soft, almost patronizing. He doesn't really take in what she's saying.

He notices the car as soon as they pull up to his house. Notices the figure, standing with his hands in his pockets, a worried look on his face.

The sun has just started to rise, casting the snowy street in a soft light.

Nothing about Barry feels soft right now. 

He feels it again, the rising rage, as soon as he clocks the face of the man standing outside his house.

"Oh thank, Christ!" Fuches says as soon as Barry steps out of the back of the car. 

The social workers, a man and a woman, step out of the front of the car, intercepting Fuches before he can reach the teenager.

"I'm sorry, sir, who are you?" the male social worker asks, extending a hand out, placing it on Fuches's shoulder.

Fuches blinks, taken aback by the ambush. He looks over the man's shoulder, tries to get Barry's attention.

Barry is standing behind the woman, face twisted in that same look again.

"I know him," Fuches says, looking between the social workers and Barry. He hasn't seen him in so long. He's so different now. "Barry, tell them."

Fuches looks like he's been crying, eyes rimmed red. His previously slicked back hair is lighter than it was, beard a little greyer. He looks like he hasn't slept.

Barry's jaw clenches, fists balled in the pockets of the jacket that he's wearing. It's one of his dad's. It'd been the first thing he'd grabbed when the officer's had come to his door earlier that morning. 

His dad. Fuck. His dad wasn't there. He wasn't gonna be there when he walked through the door.

Exhaling, Barry looks towards the social workers, "He's my uncle."

Fuches breathes out a sigh of relief. 

The man and woman exchange glances. They look between Barry and Fuches, stepping out of the way.

The man hands Fuches a card, and the woman hands Barry one. They tell them both that someone will be round in a few days, to settle arrangements in regards to Barry's living situation.

They drive off, leaving Barry and Fuches standing outside of Barry's house, the snow falling heavy at their feet.

Barry doesn't acknowledge him. He just turns away, starts heading towards his house.

Fuches follows behind, jogging slightly to catch up, "Buddy, come on, you gotta talk to me."

Barry ignores him, opens the door that he'd forgotten to lock, all in the rush of everything.

He feels the familiar weight of Fuches's hand, heavy and warm on his back. Jerking away, he turns to him, jabs a finger in his face. He's taller than Fuches is now, the man blinking up at him, dumbstruck by the rage that Barry explodes at him, "Get the fuck away from me, Fuches!"

"Barry, buddy, come on," Fuches pleads, voice desperate. He's got tears in his eyes as he reaches out to Barry again, only to be met with a door slammed in his face.

Barry can hear him, pleading with him through the wood and glass.

Standing in the hallway, he screws his eyes shut, tries to ground himself.

_One. Two. Three._ Just like his dad had taught him when they were at the gun range. _Keep calm. Don't just shoot, shoot, shoot. Patience._

Fuches goes quiet outdoors.

Barry exhales.

There's a knock. The sound of Fuches's voice again, this time coming from down the hallway, through the kitchen and into his backyard. His dad must have left the gate open.

Rage. Burning hot and white.

The toe of his sneakers hit something with a solid thump.

He opens his eyes. The green duffel bag, still there from the night before.

The backdoor swings open, and Fuches stumbles backwards, falling ass first into the snow.

"Barry!" He gasps, staring wide eyed up at the barrel of a hunting rifle.

"I told you!" Barry yells, too loud for the time of day it is. His neighbors will hear him. "I told you to stay the fuck away from me, Fuches! I told you!"

Blinking slowly, Fuches looks passed the barrel of the gun. Instead, he sees the face of a boy, terrified and broken, under all that fire and rage.

"Barry," Fuches's voice is softer, croaked out. He holds his hands out, blood mixed with snow, gravel stinging his palms. "Barry, come on, buddy. I get it. I know."

The gun lowers, Barry's fingers flexing around it, tears spilling down his cheeks. He chokes back a sob, voice cracked as he speaks, "A hit and run. A fucking hit and run, Fuches."

Fuches's hands lower, his own eyes stinging with tears. He swallows, "I know, buddy. I know."

The weight of the gun crushes the snow and Barry falls to his knees.

\- - -

Barry cries and cries and cries, face pressed to Fuches's neck.

Fuches cries too, hands cradling Barry's back.

He's so tall now, not muscular, but broad.

Fuches makes sure Barry eats, makes sure he gets enough sleep.

He catches Barry drinking whiskey, a week or so after it all.

Instead of pulling the bottle away, he pours another glass, clinks it against Barry's, and the two of them drink until they pass out on the living room floor.

\- - -

The funeral is organised completely by Fuches.

Barry doesn't expect many people to turn out, but when he walks through the doors of the church, it's packed. 

Men in army uniforms line the pews, in silent mourning.

There's a large board, with a picture of his father's face on it. His deployment photo. He looks so young. 

"You look just like your father," an elderly man tells him. He looks like a Sergeant of some kind. He takes Barry's hand, shakes it firmly. "I'm so sorry for your loss, son. He was a good man."

He hears those words a lot. They keep telling him he's the spitting image, how good of a man he was. 

Barry thanks them. It's all he can do.

Fuches delivers a speech. 

Barry doesn't really notice the murmurs around him when Fuches starts going on another tangent, the confused expressions and questions.

He's too empty. He hasn't felt anything for days now. He's just been slugging through the motions. It's as if he can't tell if he's asleep or awake.

Fuches finds him at the wake.

They're at an Irish themed bar, one that his dad used to go to with his army buddies.

Barry is sat at a booth, a glass of soda in front of him, bubbling away. It doesn't taste like anything when he drinks it. He wants whiskey. He wants to drink until he can't feel his limbs.

"You wanna get out of here, bud?" Fuches asks, hand reaching out, squeezing Barry's knee.

Barry blinks down at the hand. It's familiar. An anchor, of sorts. Exhaling, he nods.

\- - -

Barry thinks that Fuches is gonna take him home, get wasted with him again.

Instead, they end up at the shooting range.

Barry's stomach drops. He hasn't been there, not since the day before... when his dad had taken him for practice before their trip.

"Why are we here?" Barry grips the passenger seat. He looks to Fuches, brow furrowed. "Why, Fuches?"

"You gotta take it, Barry," Fuches says, tone serious as he meets Barry's eye. Reaching over, he grips Barry's knee, tighter than he had done in the bar. "You gotta take that empty feeling inside you. Just like you took that rage and that anger. You gotta take it and you gotta make it something else. You gotta put it into something, or you're gonna break."

Barry's eyes sting. He feels like he's going to cry. The emptiness, it's shifting, anger, fear, bubbling away. He grits his teeth, shakes his head, "I can't."

"You can," Fuches says, firmer, knuckles turning white as they grip tighter. "This is what you're good at, Barry. This is what makes you better. Stronger."

Letting out a shaky breath, Barry nods, eyes fixed with Fuches's, "Yeah. Yeah. It is."

\- - - 

Even through the layers of heavy fabric, Barry can feel the weight of Fuches's hands on his back and shoulder, readjusting his stance, their boots crunching in the snow.

"That's it, bud," Fuches's voice is low, just audible enough to hear above the flapping of bird wings and the babble of a creek nearby. "You're doing good."

Barry isn't sure exactly why he needs Fuches to show him how to do this. His stance has always been excellent, ever since he first shot a gun at the age of eleven, back in the shooting range. Fuches had always been so sloppy, blaming it on an injury he got in the war.

The elk is huge, so much bigger than the small deer that Barry had shot a few days prior. He can see it breathing, warm air puffing out of its nostrils in the cold.

Barry can barely feel his face, even with his hood up and scarf wrapped around his mouth, but he doesn't think about that now.

Instead, he zones in on the elk, concentrates on the way its standing, turned away from him, head out of the cross-hairs. He'd shot the deer in the center of the chest, like the targets at the range. It'd suffered, bled out slowly, choking on its own blood. He won't make that mistake again.

The shot rings out, impossibly loud, cracking in the still air.

It takes a second for the adrenaline to flood over him, filling his cold body with a wave of warmth, pooling in his veins.

Fuches doesn't yell, not at first, not until the elk's body slumps to the snow.

"Fuck yeah!" Fuches's hands are squeezing Barry's biceps, pulling his body back against him, almost knocking him off balance. "Fuck yeah, buddy!"

Barry's face, stoic at first, stretches into a smile, a sharp bark of a laugh leaving his chest, and then he's grinning, fully indulging in the excitement of it all, the adrenaline coursing through him.

Turning, he faces Fuches, sees the spark of joy in his eyes, matches it with his own, throwing an arm around the older, shorter man's shoulders. 

It's unlike anything else, the comradery, the success of a kill. He's felt so numb ever since his dad had died, and this... well, it's something else.

"Come on," Fuches says after a moment, pulling away from the embrace, still gripping Barry's arms. He grins up at the teenager, who's becoming more and more of a man every day. He's eighteen soon. He's so tall, so strong. "Let's get this back to the cabin. No mac and cheese tonight!"

\- - -

The cabin is far from what Barry had expected.

He'd imagined something small, dark and running purely on coal or wood for fuel, like the cabin his dad was going to take him to.

Instead, he finds himself in a large, A-frame place, with floor to ceiling windows on one side, looking out onto the snowy mountains and forest. 

Fuches shows him how to carve the elk, something he's surprisingly good at considering that his aim is piss poor and the only thing he'd managed to kill was a rabbit in the past three days that they'd been there. 

They hang it up in the chiller in the kitchen and freeze some of the other meat. Fuches hangs the fur out to dry in the back, says that he knows a guy that could turn it into a rug. 

The rug on his own floor is clearly not real fur, Barry can tell when he steps on it in his bare feet, the fibers unnatural beneath his toes.

They eat at the large, carved table in the center of the main living area, next to the lounge. It's an oddly decorated place, a mixture of rustic and modern with some 70's vibes thrown in. 

Barry has been sleeping on the couch, a leather that sticks to his skin when the fireplace is burning too warm. There's a single loft bedroom, where Fuches sleeps, under blankets that Barry thinks are ugly but Fuches seems to think are peak designer.

Barry's eyes scan about the place when he's sat eating the cooked elk meat at the table, opposite Fuches. He swallows before asking, "Fuches, what do you do?"

Looking up from his plate, Fuches quirks a brow, "What do you mean, bud?"

"For work," Barry continues, gesturing with a fork to their surrounding area. "I know you said finances. How did you afford this place?"

Lowering his cutlery, Fuches's mouth parts, as if he's about to say something, but then he's closing it, and he looks like he's considering his answer. Folding his hands together on the table, he leans forward, a small smile on his face, like he's trying to reassure Barry of something, "I'm a manager... of sorts."

That doesn't answer Barry's question. He exhales, brows furrowing a little, "Management? What, of like, accounting?"

"Not exactly," Fuches says, tilting his head side to side. "I give people jobs to do and they give me a cut of the pay."

Barry raises a brow, squints a little, "You sound like a pimp."

"Not those kinds of jobs," Fuches laughs, shaking his head. He sighs, looking down at his plate, before leaning back again, returning to eating as Barry blinks at him, waiting for a fuller answer. "Look, it's complicated. And we came here to take our minds off everything else, right?"

Barry's shoulders sink, his fingers flexing around his knife and fork. He guesses Fuches is right. It's been good, not having to think about his dad or much else beyond hunting. He could see himself doing it more often, coming up here, letting off steam. He'll be seventeen soon, then he'll have a year left of high school. After that Fuches won't be his guardian anymore, and he'll have to get a job, make his own way in the world.

It's nice, having this time spent with Fuches. Having someone to bond with, to forget about things with. 

\- - -

Barry is sprawled out on the leather couch in the cabin, the glow of the fireplace casting over him. He's almost asleep, eyelids heavy, when he hears Fuches's voice, soft in the quiet of the night.

"Hey, bud," he sounds like he's trying to be quiet without actually being quiet, and when Barry opens his eyes, he's met by the sight of him standing before him, a bottle of whiskey and two glasses in his hands. "You fancy a nightcap?"  
Barry squints from under his arm that's slung over his forehead, a little confused, "Huh?"

"Come on, scoot over," Fuches says, putting the glasses and bottle down on the coffee table, before patting Barry's calves.

Barry complies, swinging his legs over the sides, moving to sit up. He pushes back his hair from his eyes, makes a mental note to cut it when they get back from the trip. Looking over to Fuches, he watches as the man pours out two small glasses of whiskey.  
Fuches looks so... giddy, childlike almost. He hands Barry a glass. It's not like when he'd found Barry upset after his dad had died and drank with him. He's happy, handing the glass to Barry like it's a gift.

"Big day today, buddy," Fuches says after taking a swig. He scoots closer to Barry on the couch, slaps a hand on his knee. "You did good. Shot that elk like it was nothing."

The warmth of Fuches's praise is better than the warmth of the alcohol as it slides down Barry's throat. He smiles, head bowed, almost embarrassed, "It wasn't that impressive. I could have done it better. Some of the bullet got in the meat."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Fuches barks out a laugh, shaking his head. His fingers squeeze Barry's knee, palm warm and heavy through the material of his pyjama pants. "It was so clean. You've got the gift, baby! I know it when I see it, and you've got it."

Barry's eyes move from Fuches's hand on his knee to Fuches's face, takes in the pride in his eyes, the warmth of his grin. He takes another swig of whiskey, emptying his glass, holds it out to Fuches for another.

\- - -

The rest of their night is pretty hazy.

Barry remembers Fuches's breath, hot against his cheek, leaning in, telling him how proud he is of him.

His spine feels electric, despite the rest of his body being limp. 

He remembers Fuches's fingers, pressing against his inner thigh, rubbing circles.

\- - -

Barry is eighteen now. 

He's trying to figure out what he wants to do with his last year of high school. If he can get into college. His grades aren't the best, but he's not dumb. 

He gets his first hand job at a party. Tammy's not blonde anymore. Her hair is black and slicked back. Her breath is warm when it hits his cheek in the closet of a friend's house. Her fingers touch his inner thigh and Barry kisses her awkwardly, sloppy.

Fuches picks Barry up from the party at four in the morning, watches as he stumbles out with Tammy, who kisses him before he gets into the back of the car.

"Good time?" Fuches asks, just before Barry's vomit hits the backseat.

\- - -

They go hunting again, several times during Barry's last year of high school.

Fuches asks him what he wants to do with his life.

Barry tells him he's been thinking, and he has. He's thought about it a lot. Especially when the anniversary of his dad's death came up. 

"I might join the Marines," Barry says, just after he's shot another elk, the two of them dragging it back to the cabin.

Fuches stops in his tracks, drops the elk's legs. He frowns, voice serious, "The Marines?"

"Yeah," Barry explains, visibly confused by Fuches's standoffish reaction. "I just thought... you and dad, you became such good friends. You had a purpose."

Fuches swallows, boots crunching in the snow as he shifts his weight from foot to foot, clearly agitated. 

"What?" Barry asks, dropping the back end of the elk. "I thought you'd be proud. I'm just trying to honor my dad."

Turning away from Barry, Fuches shakes his hand, hands on his hips, "No, no, no."

Barry steps forward, brow furrowed, "What? What's your problem, man?"

"My problem, Barry?" Fuches turns back towards him, voice raised. He looks... offended, almost, as if Barry's words were personally attacking him. "My problem, Barry, is that you wanna go off and fight in some pointless war, instead of using your skills where they could be useful!"

Barry scoffs, "Useful? The Marines are useful, Fuches. You were a marine. My dad was a marine."

"Yeah," Fuches nods, eyes wide. "We were. In a fucking war that actually meant something. It's the nineties now, Barry. It ain't 'nam."

Barry shakes his head. He doesn't understand why the hell Fuches is acting so weird about this, "Well, what else do you want me to do? You want me to work in some office or something?"

Exhaling through his nose, Fuches stares at Barry for a long moment, like he's contemplating whether he should tell him something. Looking away, he shakes his head, "Not yet. You're not ready."

"Ready for what, Fuches?!" Barry's voice raises, echoing through the forest. His voice is so much deeper than it had been even last year. He's got stubble on his cheeks. He's broader, taller. He'd be intimidating if Fuches didn't know him so well. "What are you hiding from me?!"

Swallowing back the tight feeling in his throat, Fuches blinks at the almost man that stands before him. He can't. Not yet. Barry isn't ready. He's too young. He shakes his head, lowers it, "I'm not hiding anything, Barry. I just... I'm not ready."  
Barry's features soften, taking in the way Fuches's voice goes quiet.

When he meets his eye again, Fuches is almost crying, "I promised your dad I'd take care of you, Barry. I'd just... I'd hate it if anything happened to you, bud."

Just like that, Barry's rage subsides, and the guilt floods his body. 

He breathes out, boots crunching in the snow, and throws his arms around Fuches.

\- - -

"'m sorry, bud," Fuches slurs, the smell of alcohol on his breath, hitting Barry's cheek.

They're in Barry's bedroom, a few days after they came back from the hunting trip.

Barry's only had one beer, Fuches must have had about six.

Barry's wearing an old Metallica shirt, one that'd belonged to his dad, and a pair of boxers. He'd just been settling down for the night when Fuches had come into his room, this time with a twelve pack of beers instead of whiskey.

Fuches's fingers are hot, rubbing circles into the meat of Barry's thigh, the two of them sat on Barry's bed. 

"It's fine, Fuches," Barry exhales, eyes fixed on Fuches's fingers, on the ring on his forefinger. Barry's pretty sure it's an army ring. His dad had the same one. He swallows, heat creeping up the back of his neck.

"You're a good kid," Fuches says, chin bumping against Barry's shoulder as he leans into him. "You're my buddy, y'know? My best friend."

Turning his neck to look at him, Barry takes in the sight of Fuches. He's shitfaced, but he's still Fuches. Still the guy who was there for him all those years. Still the guy who gave him some sort of normalcy when his dad was sick, who taught him how to shoot a gun, who took him hunting when his dad died. 

Barry doesn't know where he'd be without him.

He smiles, eyes soft in the dim light of his room, "You're my best friend too, Fuches."

Fuches hiccups through a smile, knuckles brushing the leg of Barry's boxers.

Barry thinks for a moment that maybe he imagines it. 

Fuches wouldn't kiss him. Why the hell would Fuches kiss him?

But as he blinks, he slowly realizes it, feels the scratch of Fuches's stubble against his cheek, feels his short, thick fingers on the nape of his neck.

Barry jerks back, eyes wide, staring at Fuches's dazed expression.

"Love you, bud," Fuches smiles, eyes half lidded before pulling away, moving to grab another beer.

Barry swallows, throat tight.

He doesn't know what to do, how to respond. Maybe he was imagining it.

After all, Fuches seems so... casual as Barry watches him crack open another beer and take a sip.

Barry looks away.

\- - -

Barry turns nineteen.

Fuches tells him it's okay if he wants to throw a party at the house, that he won't mind if he brings Tammy over.

Barry tells Fuches that Tammy isn't his girlfriend. She's just a girl he hangs out with sometimes. 

_A girl who kisses him sober. Not when she's drunk and then acts like it never happened,_ is what he wants to say, but he doesn't.

He'd pushed that to the back of his mind.

Barry still isn't sure what he's going to do for work. He gets a part time job at a local store, stacking shelves. Fuches tells him he doesn't have to do that. Barry asks him what else he had in mind. Fuches doesn't say anything.

He reads up on the Marines when Fuches is asleep. Sometimes he goes through his dad's old things, reads the letters he sent to his mom. It doesn't hurt much anymore, thinking about his mom. 

It still hurts thinking about his dad. The guy who did the hit and run still hasn't been caught.

Sometimes Barry will go to the shooting range and picture the target as the guy. He doesn't know what he looks like, doesn't even know if it was a guy. He just riddles the target with bullets until the anger subsides.

He feels stuck. In some sort of limbo. He wants to join the Marines, do something with his life, but Fuches always seems like he's holding something out from him without actually saying what it is.

\- - - 

Barry finds Fuches one night, standing over the bathroom sink, blood dripping from his nose.

He presses a towel to his face, watches wordlessly as Fuches flinches slightly, worse for wear.

"Jesus, man, were you robbed?" Barry asks, voice laced with concern as he looks over the man sat on the edge of the bathtub. He's kneeling before him, looking up at him. "You need to call the cops."

"No," Fuches says, fingers pressing around Barry's wrist, tight. He meets Barry's eye, serious. "No cops."

Barry's eyes glance over Fuches. He's still got his watch, the gold chain under his shirt, the ring on his finger. Barry swallows, meets his eye again, "You weren't robbed, were you?"

\- - -

The rage. Building. Burning. Hot in his gut.

"How?" Barry's voice is low, monotonous as he stares up at Fuches, fingers clenched into fists. "How did you find him?"

"I have contacts," Fuches says, a worried expression on his features, like he's scared that Barry's going to do something stupid. "My guy tried to confront him, but it didn't work, so I..."

"You sent a guy to confront him?" Barry frowns. "Like a hit?"

Fuches's eyes bulge a little. He swallows. 

"What do you do, Fuches?" Barry asks, voice firm. 

Fuches's mouth gapes for a few moments, and it pisses Barry off. He just wants an answer. Wants honesty.

"What is it that you do, Fuches?!" Barry's voice raises.

"I hire people," Fuches babbles out. "Not for me, for other people. Bad people."

"Why? What do you hire them to do?" Barry's nails dig harder into the inside of his palm, hard enough to draw blood.

Silence. Fuches blinks at him. He exhales, "To kill people. I hire people to kill people, Barry."

Barry looks away, eyes staring out into nothing. He sits, stewing in his hatred, lets it fill him up, churning inside his body. He looks up again, meets Fuches's eye, "Where is he?"

Fuches frowns, "Who?"

"The guy, Fuches!" Barry yells, the sound sending a wave of fear through Fuches as he stands up, knocking over the coffee table before him, objects clattering to the floor. "The fucking guy who killed my dad!"

There it is, the same look Barry had worn all those years ago, only on the older face of a stronger man, of someone Fuches had put every ounce of training into. 

Fuches's fear subsides, voice low, "I'll show you."

\- - -

The red neon of the cheap motel sign casts a glow across Barry's features, illuminating him in the pitch black of Fuches's car.

Fuches's voice is all he can hear over the buzzing rage swelling inside of him, a low tone that's speaking besides him in the driver's seat, "Don't let it overpower you, Barry."

Barry's gloved fingers squeeze the handle of the gun on the dashboard. There's a heaviness, weighing down on him. He feels Fuches's fingers, pressed to his knee, an anchor.

"Just take it. Take control of that rage," Fuches squeezes Barry's knee, eyes fixed on the younger man's hard set features. "Just like the elk, buddy. Don't hesitate."

Barry steps out of the vehicle. 

Fuches watches for a moment, breath shaky, then it's as if it hits him all of a sudden, how utterly deranged this is.

_Shit._ He's just sent this grieving kid in to kill the man who killed his father.

Stumbling out of the drivers side, Fuches hisses, calling out to Barry as his feet scramble across the parking lot, "Barry! Wait! Wait!"

Barry doesn't hear him. He doesn't hear anything but the blood rushing in his ears.

The door opens, Barry's hand turning the knob, and its almost immediate.

He's met with eyes, wide and scared, the face of a man with a black eye and a split lip, no doubt from the tussle with Fuches earlier.

Barry aims, pulls the trigger.

It's louder than Barry had anticipated. Not enough to alert the attention of whoever else occupied the shitty roadside motel, but the silencer doesn't make a quiet pop like in the movies. 

When his ears stop buzzing, when the wave of adrenaline fizzles out, Barry is left standing there, taking in the sight of blood splattered across floral walls.

Fuches's voice is muffled by the sound of his own hands, "Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck, Barry. Oh fuck."

Barry blinks rapidly, tries to breathe in, but it feels like he can't quite get enough air.

He feels the material of Fuches's jacket against his wrist, feels him take the gun from his hand. He's holding it with the sleeve of his coat, making sure not to leave prints. He looks terrified, rushing to the body slumped in the bed.  
Barry doesn't speak. He doesn't move. He just stares as Fuches shoves the gun into the limp hand of the man on the bed.

"We gotta get outta here, bud," Fuches rushes to Barry's side, grabbing him by the biceps, shaking him. "Hey, look at me, Barry. We gotta go."

When Fuches meets Barry's eyes, they're wide and vacant for what feels like longer than it actually is. And then, suddenly, there are tears, welling up, pricking at the corners, and all Fuches sees is a terrified kid.

He hauls Barry out of there, drags him across the parking lot, practically throwing him into the passenger seat, "Come on, buddy. You're okay. You're alright."

\- - -

He's shaking like a kicked dog.

There's no comradery, not in the joyful sense, at least. He isn't celebrating, isn't laughing like when he'd thrown his first bullseye, or shot his first target at the range, or killed his first elk.

Fuches's hands smother him, cradling his back as Barry grips onto him, fingers pulling tight at his jacket.

"Hey, shh," Fuches hushes, an attempt at soothing the man falling apart against him. "It's okay, buddy. You're alright. I'm here."

Barry doesn't speak, at least not coherently. His tears are wet, face buried in the crook of Fuches's neck. He smells familiar, like whiskey and like the shower gel he buys that both him and Barry use.

Fingers clasping onto the lapels of Fuches's jacket, Barry pulls away, meets his eye. His own face is twisted in agony, cheeks and lashes wet, "I'm sorry."

Eyes wide, Fuches breathes out, shaking his head, "It's okay, buddy. It's not your fault. I shouldn't have... I shouldn't have told you to do that."

Barry's teeth tug at his bottom lip, head shaking, fingers balling into fists at Fuches's lower back, "No, not that. I was gonna leave you. Join the Marines."

Fuches's head pulls back, confused, "What? No, bud. It's fine. That doesn't matter now."

"I'm sorry," Barry croaks out, pulling Fuches closer, chin tucked over his shoulder, eyes screwed shut. "Don't leave. Please. Stay with me."

"Hey, hey," Fuches shushes, nose pressed to Barry's chest, his hands rubbing circles up and down the expanse of his back. "I'm not going anywhere, bud."

\- - -

Barry is calm now, sitting on his bed, hair damp from the bath that Fuches had run for him.

He's wearing a robe, one of Fuches's. It's too short for him, his boxers showing through, but he doesn't really care. Fuches has seen him in worse states of undress. He'd wrapped the towel around him when he'd gotten out of the bath, calloused fingers brushing against bare, damp skin.

Now, Fuches is besides him on his bed, telling him that he should get some rest and try not to think about tonight, about what happened.

There's that warm weight of Fuches's hand again, on Barry's knee. He gazes down at it for a moment, before meeting Fuches's eye, and it reminds him of every time before, sat on Barry's bed or on the couch in the cabin.

Barry kisses him.

Fuches doesn't stop him. He doesn't move, either. He just sits there, frozen for a moment, eyes open.

Pulling back, Barry's eyes scan the older man's face, trying to gauge a response. Leaning forward, his fingers find Fuches's t-shirt, curling into the material as kisses him again.

It's firmer this time, his lips slotting against Fuches's bottom one, feeling the scratch of Fuches's stubble against his chin. 

Fuches's fingers grip tighter around Barry's knee, his eyes sliding shut as his lips part and he kisses the younger man back, pulling him close.

Barry is clumsy at this. He's not skilled like he is when he shoots. He kisses too hard, kneels on Fuches's hands a few times, catches his fingers on Fuches's belt buckle.

Regardless, Fuches is lost in it, watching through half lidded eyes as Barry slides to his knees on the floor before him. He looks so good like this, giving Fuches what he's wanted for so long.

He's aware, painfully so of how fucked up this is, but he doesn't stop it. It comes from the same part of his brain that lets him know that his line of work is fucked up, too. The part that makes him manipulate, that makes him mold and twist people into whatever shapes he wants them to be. 

Barry is that, but he's so much more than that. 

Fuches loves him. He does. He cares for this man. This man who's barely just become a man, youth still in his eyes as he looks up at him from beneath dark lashes. 

Fuches's fingers push the hair from Barry's forehead, gives him a good look at Barry's face as he sinks his mouth over the head of his cock.

Fuches is rock hard, has been since his fingers were on Barry's thigh.

Barry is messy, inexperienced at this, but Fuches doesn't care. It's everything. He's so good even when he's not good, coughing around him, teeth scraping his skin a little.

Fuches's fingers grip the square of Barry's jaw, a silent instruction, and Barry opens his mouth wider, eyes stinging with tears as he gags. 

"That's it, bud," Fuches grunts, hips rising from the mattress, cock hitting the back of Barry's tongue. His fingertips stroke Barry's cheek, the feeling of soft stubble a mental excuse to Fuches. It's not so bad. Barry's not a kid, not anymore. "Good boy."

A soft, croaked out noise leaves the back of Barry's throat, eyes squeezing shut. His fingers are pressed against his boxers, under the robe. Fuches can't see if Barry is hard or not, but he can see his eyes, big and wet, looking up at him, and that's enough.

Fuches's fingers tighten their grip in Barry's hair, a tight warmth spreading through his abdomen. His eyes roll back when he comes, harder than he has done in years, harder than he's ever done with his own hand, just thinking about this, about Barry underneath him.

Barry chokes, pulling off of Fuches, feeling the hot wet of Fuches's come dribble down his chin. It doesn't taste good, but Barry doesn't think about that. He just thinks about how Fuches's eyes had rolled back, how he'd praised him.

He isn't hard. He thought he would be. He should be, surely? Maybe he's not ready for that yet.

Rising to his feet, Barry scrubs at his chin with the back of his sleeve, wipes the remnants of Fuches's come off his face.

When he looks down, Fuches is gazing up at him, dazed, legs askew, fingers curling into Barry's bed sheets.

The words that leave him make Barry's chest bloom with warmth, "I love you, buddy."

\- - -

Barry isn't gay, or bi, or whatever.

He has no interest in men. 

He's tried. He's watched gay porn to test it out, and he didn't feel a thing. He's kissed a guy at a party once and didn't feel a thing either, even though the dude was objectively attractive.

There's nothing there. 

Fuches. Well, Barry doesn't know what Fuches is. Fuches has magazines, old Playboys stashed under his bed. 

It doesn't matter. None of it matters.

This isn't like that. It's beyond all of that.

Barry is better at it now, sucking Fuches's cock. 

His dick twitches sometimes, when Fuches calls him a good boy, when he tells him he loves him.

There's one day, when Barry's worried about something he hears on the radio. They found the body. Ruled it as a suicide.

Barry doesn't actively freak out, but he's anxious, and Fuches can tell, so he sits him down, runs his fingers up and down Barry's thigh, reassures him that it's alright, that he shouldn't feel bad about what happened.

"You did what you had to do," Fuches's voice is low, that same, firm tone he'd used after Barry's dad had died, before they went into the shooting range. He's used it time and time again, to break Barry out of his rages, to anchor him. It's something that Barry responds to, hones in on, leaves him fixated on Fuches's voice and Fuches's hand on his thigh. "It's good. You did good, bud."

A small grunt leaves Barry's throat and he's suddenly aware of it, the weight of Fuches's palm on his dick. 

He's rock hard. 

Barry hadn't expected that. 

Fuches looks at him, then down at his hand, then back up at Barry.

Barry gasps, face pressed into the nook of Fuches's neck, hips bucking, cock sliding between Fuches's calloused fingers.

He comes, groan muffled in Fuches's skin, spilling over his knuckles.

\- - -

"I think," Barry says one night, the two of them sat at the kitchen table. "What you do... I could do it, work for you, I mean."

Fuches's eyes light up. He grins, "Yeah?"

\- - -

Barry still needs training. 

He's not quite ready yet.

Fuches doesn't want him to rush into it so soon after his first kill.

He's somewhat lenient with the truth. He doesn't tell Barry that technically he isn't in charge. That technically, he works for other people.

Barry puts time into his training. He's good. Really good.

He barely thinks about the guy anymore. He doesn't think about his brains splattered across the motel room wall.

\- - -

The anniversary of his dad's death is coming up.

Barry is nineteen, and he's digging through his dad's old Marine records.

There's letters between his squadron, photographs. 

He doesn't recognize any of the names.

Odd. He thought he'd met his and Fuches's old buddies at the funeral.

There's one photograph of his dad and Fuches, arms around each other. It's unassuming at first, until Barry notices the fact that they're standing in a kitchen, and Fuches is wearing an apron, not a uniform like his dad.

He's seen pictures of Fuches in his uniform. He knows he served. He'd assumed he was like his dad, going out and seeing conflict. Not... 

Barry's stomach churns. Fuches had told him, time and time again. His dad saved his ass in 'nam. Barry had pictured explosions, his dad pulling Fuches from the rubble. 

Fuches had painted an image of himself and his dad, two, strong soldiers, brothers in arms. He'd worn medals at his dad's funeral, one for bravery. You don't get that from serving mashed potatoes in the cafeteria.

Sorting through the boxes under his dad's bed, Barry finds something else. A dart. The same ones that had come with the board Fuches had bought him. He supposes his dad had kept it after Barry had smashed up the board in a fit of rage. A keepsake for how good Barry had been at it.

Fuches hadn't been good. Fuches could barely hit a low score, let alone the bullseye

He couldn't hit anything bigger than a rabbit either.

The rage isn't as strong as it was, that little bit of apprehension in his gut stopping him from lashing out.

There had to be an explanation.

Fuches cared about him. He took care of him. He loves him.

Barry doesn't beat around the bush when he confronts him, placing the photograph in front of him at the kitchen table, "What happened in 'nam, Fuches?"

Fuches blinks at the photograph for a moment, before looking up at Barry. He laughs, shaking his head, "What d'you mean, bud?"

"You told me..." Barry's hands are on his hips, head cocked to the side, jaw clenched. "You said you served. Just like my dad did. You said you fought together."

A moment of silence passes between them, and Barry can see the cogs turning in Fuches's brain, coming up with an answer. 

Barry turns away from him, shoulders rising as he inhales, trying to push down the anger in his gut.

"Barry, come on," Fuches says, the chair beneath his feet scraping across the floor as he stands up. "I mean, I technically did serve."

"Right, right," Barry scoffs, turning towards Fuches before the older man can press a hand to his back, try to divert him. His voice isn't raised, more of a quiet storm, brewing."You served fucking beans, Fuches. How did my dad save your ass, exactly?"

Mouth open, Fuches blinks up at Barry. He can't lose the kid. Not now. Not when he's put so much effort in. Not after everything. He exhales, voice quiet as he speaks, "Barry, please."

"Just fucking tell me, man!" Barry's voice raises, not screaming, but angry, demanding. He steps forward, jabs a finger against Fuches's chest. "You clearly weren't on any battlefield, so how the hell did my dad save your ass?!"

"He worked for me, alright?!" Fuches yells, above Barry's interrogation. A silence falls between them again, Fuches's eyes averted. He slowly looks up at Barry again, meets his wide, confused eyes. "He did what I hire people to do for me."

Barry's lips part, realization settling in, voice quiet, "What you want me to do for you."

Fuches's eyes shift, brow furrowing, "You offered to do that, Barry. You said you want to do it. You said you'd be good at it."

Swallowing, Barry blinks at Fuches, taking in the man's words. He's not wrong. He did say that he wanted to do it, but that was after... after everything. After Fuches had told him where the man who killed his dad was. After he'd taken him hunting. And to the gun range when he was eleven. After he'd come into his life when Barry was five-years-old and embedded himself into his home life, becoming an ever present figure.

Eyes pricking with tears, Barry's stomach churns. Was that all it was? Making Barry a replacement? Making him into something Fuches could use for his own gain?

Voice shaking, Barry meets Fuches's eye, "Did you do with him what you did with me?"

Fuches swallows, audibly, "What do you mean?"

The inside of Barry's thigh can still feel it, Fuches's hand, warm and weighty, "You know what I mean."

"What?" Fuches shakes his head. He honestly sounds offended. "No. No, your dad and I we were just..."

"Buddies?" Barry scoffs, stepping back from the man before him. "You told me we were buddies, too. You told me that when I was eight."

"That's..." Fuches babbles, trying to form a coherent thought, a rationalization for everything. There is none. None of this is normal. "You make it sound like something it isn't."

"Well, what is it, Fuches?!" Barry's voice raises again, gut twisting. He doesn't know whether he wants to punch Fuches in the face, throw up, or fall into his arms again, forgive him. He's all he has. "What is this? Am I your fucking prodigy? Or am I your friend? Or your fucking boyfriend? What am I, Fuches?"

Fuches's face twists in discomfort at the implication of Barry's last accusation. It isn't like that. He steps forward, slowly, pleading, "Come on, Barry. You're my buddy. It's just you and me."

Barry takes a deep breath, teeth chewing the inside of his lip, thoughts churning in his brain. He exhales, "Maybe it doesn't have to be. Not anymore."

"Barry..." Fuches pleads, but he isn't really sure what he's pleading for. He doesn't know what Barry is intending to do. He knows what he's capable of. It's what he'd drilled into it, all those years ago. He's good at it, taking that rage and using it to kill. Fuches shakes his head, fear twisting his insides. "Don't do anything rash, bud."

\- - -

Fuches finds himself in a hotel room, eating cheap pizza and watching an old football game.

There's a bruise on his cheek, in the shape of Barry's knuckles, and he touches it every now and then.

Barry's sold the house. He's almost twenty. He has sole ownership of his dad's assets. 

Their last confrontation had been messy. Fuches had come to apologize, and Barry had threatened to hand him into the cops, let them know what sort of shit he was involved in.

There'd been an underlining threat to his words, "I'll tell them what you did to me."

Fuches had scoffed. He hadn't done shit. He'd never touched Barry, not like that. Not when he was underage. He wouldn't.

He keeps track of Barry, makes sure he's safe. 

Barry's working at a bait shop, somewhere in Wyoming. He tries to get in contact with his aunt on his dad's side, but she doesn't want to know. 

Fuches gets on with his life for a couple of years, hires people who are sloppy, bad at their jobs. There's a woman from Ukraine who's good, but she's a bit intense, a religious nut who only takes jobs if she thinks she's cleansing the Earth of sinners.

None of them are like Barry. 

Fuches may have only witnessed Barry kill one person, but he knows what he's capable of. Knows that he's made for this. Whether it'd been through Fuches's hand or nature, Barry was unstoppable.

He finds out Barry is joining the Marines around 2002.

It's a year after 9/11, which makes sense, he guesses.

He uses his contacts, a few of the old squad to find out where Barry is stationed, tracks where he is, where he travels to.

Sometimes Fuches wakes up from nightmares where he gets a phone call, telling him that Barry is dead, shot down on the battlefield.

Sometimes in those nightmares Barry's dad is there, angry at him, chastising him for not taking care of his boy like he'd promised.

He gets a phone call one day from a hospital in Germany.

\- - -

"Mr. Fuches, I don't recommend discharging Barry so quickly," the doctor tells him. "He's clearly traumatized, not to mention the higher ups will want to get involved. There's going to be an investigation."

"Investigation?" Fuches scoffs, folding his hands together on the desk of the doctor's office. He shakes his head. "A guy got killed in a war zone. What needs to be investigated?"

"He was a civilian, for one," the doctor reasons.

"Ah, I see," Fuches nods, feigning acceptance of the doctor's reasoning. "Let me guess, this guy was the only civilian to get caught in the crossfire of war? No one else has ever been killed in such circumstances?"

The doctor is taken aback by Fuches's words, her mouth gaping, trying to form a response to such audacity.

"Believe me," Fuches's lips curl into a smile as he leans forward. "It'll all be handled soon enough."

\- - -

"You're being discharged," a Sergeant tells him.

Barry looks up from his hospital dinner, eyes rimmed red, bags under them, "What?"

"Honorable discharge. It's been a pleasure serving with you, Berkman."

The hand that's stuck out to him is foreign to Barry, who blinks at it for a moment, before taking it and shaking it slowly.

\- - -

Through the soldiers reuniting with their loved ones on the desert sand, Barry doesn't expect to find anyone standing there for him.

But then, through all the people, he sees him, standing in a dark suit, hair slicked back, older than before, lips curled into a smirk.

Barry swallows, throat tight at the sight of him.

Fuches nods, once, before gesturing for Barry to come with him.

Barry's boots dig into the sand.

He inhales, considering his options, churning over everything that had happened.   
He's tired. He's so tired. 

Exhaling, he nods, taking a step forward.

\- - -

"I'm sorry," Barry says, the two of them sat in Fuches's apartment.

They've just finished eating. McDonald's. Better than the hospital food and the rationing Barry was used to. He'd shoveled it down, ravenous.

Fuches is at his side, eyes soft with concern, "Sorry for what, bud?"

Barry's eyes meet Fuches's, pricked with tears, lip trembling, "I was such a dick, man. I was just confused. I thought you were just using me."

Fuches sighs, eyes dropping to Barry's knee, then back up to his face again, voice soft, "You had every right to be mad. I wasn't honest with you, bud. I should have been honest."

Barry's voice cracks a little when he speaks, but he manages to get his words out, "I owe you, Fuches. Korengal... I mean, you got me out of there. Fuck, I could be in jail right now"

"Hey," Fuches shushes, shifting on the couch, shoulder bumping against Barry's. "Hey, it's alright, bud. Don't mention it. It's nothing."

Barry wipes at the tear that rolls down his cheek with the back of his sleeve, eyes casting down. 

He watches, feels the weight of Fuches's palm, warm and familiar, pressed to his thigh.

Meeting Fuches's eye again, Barry's lips curl into a smile.

**Author's Note:**

> I am OBSESSED with their terrible, terrible relationship and wanted to write a backstory for what I like to imagine happened.
> 
> Deeply sorry if I didn't tag this correctly. A relationship like this is difficult to define. 
> 
> Please note I know absolutely nothing about the USA military/marines and am basing this entirely on knowledge from the show.
> 
> Title is from "You're A Mirror I Cannot Avoid" by Bad Books, my number one BarryFuches song.


End file.
